Page 14 of The Mob Boss's Bride
"A prison keeps people in. A fortress keeps threats out." He turns me to face him. "You're not a prisoner, Fern. You're my wife. This is your home now too."
The sincerity in his voice makes it hard to maintain my emotional walls. He shows me the library, filled with first editions behind glass. The gym, where he trains daily. The heated indoor pool. Each room, he tells me, is mine to use as I wish.
Throughout the day, he touches me constantly—a hand at the small of my back, fingers brushing my arm, tucking hair behind my ear. Each touch feels like a claim, a reminder. Each makes my body respond with embarrassing eagerness.
He feeds me lunch on the terrace, insisting I try his favorite wines. He asks about my bakery, my recipes, listening with genuine interest. He gives me my phone, but it's been wiped clean—"For security," he explains. My contacts and photos have been backed up and transferred to a new, secure device.
I should be outraged at the invasion of privacy. Instead, I find myself touched by his thoroughness. By his care. By his determination to integrate me into his life while keeping me safe.
By evening, I'm exhausted from the emotional whiplash. While Atlas takes a business call, I wander away, seeking a moment of normalcy, of familiarity. I find it in the kitchen—that industrial-grade kitchen where I first displayed my pastries for him.
It's empty now, gleaming and pristine. Without conscious thought, I begin opening cabinets, assessing ingredients, checking equipment. Baking has always been my therapy, my comfort, my way of making sense of a world that often feels too large and dangerous. And right now, I need that comfort desperately.
I find flour, sugar, butter. Vanilla extract and baking powder. Good chocolate. All the basics, plus some specialty items I wouldn't have expected. Whoever stocks this kitchen knows food. I pull out mixing bowls, measuring cups, a stand mixer that's clearly never been used.
Soon I'm elbow-deep in cookie dough, the familiar motions soothing my frayed nerves. I've made these dark chocolate sea salt cookies a thousand times—the recipe is so ingrained I could do it blindfolded. The repetitive action of scooping and placing dough on baking sheets centers me, brings me back to myself. For the first time since the warehouse, I feel like Fern again, not just Atlas's scared "wife."
The cookies are just coming out of the oven when I sense him. I don't hear him—Atlas moves with an uncanny quietness for such a large man—but I feel his presence like a change in atmospheric pressure.
I turn to find him leaning against the doorway, watching me with an unreadable expression. I'm suddenly aware that I'm wearing only his t-shirt and panties, having discarded the leggings and sweater for comfort while baking. The shirt barely covers the tops of my thighs.
"Found everything you need?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through my bones.
"Yes." I set the hot cookie sheet on a cooling rack. "I hope you don't mind. I needed to..."
"To bake." He pushes off from the doorframe and approaches, his movements fluid and predatory. "To feel normal."
"Yes." The simple acknowledgment of my need throws me slightly. I hadn't expected him to understand so easily.
He reaches past me to take a warm cookie, his chest brushing my back as he does. The contact, even through fabric, sends a spark of awareness along my skin.
"These are good," he says after taking a bite, sounding almost surprised.
"Don't sound so shocked. I do own a bakery."
A smile curves his lips—one of his rare, genuine smiles that transforms his face from intimidating to devastating. "I know you're talented. I just didn't expect..." He gestures to the domestic scene before him—cookies cooling, flour dusting the countertops, me in his shirt. "This. In my kitchen. It looks right."
The simple statement carries more weight than it should. It looks right. I look right. Here, in his space, wearing his clothes, creating something. Like I belong.
"I don't belong here," I say, voicing the thought aloud, but it sounds unconvincing even to my own ears.
Atlas sets down the cookie and steps closer, until my back hits the counter. He places his hands on either side of me, caging me in without touching.
"You do belong here." His voice drops lower, more intimate. "Right here. In my house. In my kitchen." His gaze drops to my lips. "In my bed."
"Atlas," I breathe, both warning and invitation.
"Tell me you don't want this." His face lowers to mine, his breath warm on my lips. "Tell me you don't want me, and I'll step back. But don't lie to yourself."
I should say it. Should push him away. Should remember that this marriage is just for protection, just temporary, just a business arrangement.
But I can't lie. Not to him. Not to myself.
"I want you." The confession falls from my lips like a secret, like a surrender. "I shouldn't, but I do."
Something flashes in his eyes—triumph, hunger, satisfaction—before his mouth claims mine. The kiss is deep and consuming from the first touch, his tongue sweeping in to taste the chocolate lingering on mine. His hands move to my waist, lifting me easily to sit on the counter.
"Wrap your legs around me," he commands against my mouth.
